


I Think It's Been Three Years (Suspended In Time)

by hazandboo_write



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: ALL the tags, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Artist Zayn, Barista Louis, Depression, Drugs, Fluff, M/M, Student Harry, im so sorry, liam why arent you in this where did you go, wow thats so many tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:04:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazandboo_write/pseuds/hazandboo_write
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>so basically, like. they're in uni, right? and it's been three years, jesus. neither of them were expecting this. neither of them were expecting to see each other again, let alone not rip each other's throats out, so. uni au of sorts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Think It's Been Three Years (Suspended In Time)

**Author's Note:**

> super self indulgent it's not even funny

In sixth form, Harry Edward Styles and Louis William Tomlinson would whispers promises in each other's mouths, against each other's skin. Promises about their love for each other, their plans for the future, and other sappy shit. At least, in retrospect it seems quite shit to Harry. All lies, mostly. On Louis' part, Harry will specify, you know, if anyone is to ask. Needless to say, their power couple status couldn't last forever, and like hell it didn't. Not that it wasn't perfect for a while there, it was, but. Harry supposes they were never meant to last. Their entire relationship was built around drugs, after all. A bit shit of a foundation on which to build a relationship.  

See, Louis was a king of sorts, most popular boy in all of town. His reign was one of Class B drugs, in particular. Harry, on the other hand, stuck to what he supposed to be the tamer of all the substances being swapped around on campus. And so there they were, both getting high out of their minds (one from these shifty little white capsules tasting like death, and one from these messily rolled, highly offensive looking joints) nearly three times a week. The life of the party, they were called. Hottest, and also most exhibitionist, couple around. Lazy rutting against each other's thighs to the frantic thumping of their favourite songs, some of the more tiresome and heart-tightening memories for Harry.  Also up there on the list were the shared laughs over failed maths exams and chemistry lab reports. They were fucking stupid, Louis and Harry were, but they had each other, and they had drugs, and they had sex, and they _didn’t care._

They were great, until they weren’t.  Harry’s mum cracked down on him, beyond furious with her son’s steadily dropping grades and household attendance.  Of course, Harry couldn’t just get his act together.  Harry Styles was dating Louis Tomlinson, the boy who loved only one more solitary thing than he loved Harry himself (pills).  And part of Harry always knew that if his boyfriend ever had to choose between the two, it wasn’t Harry who’d come out victorious.  He was right.  For months Harry struggled with these feelings, feelings of love for Louis, loss by his family, regret for the choices he had made.  

And when things just go too much, the even _more_ not-so-good stuff started.  Cutting, mostly, with these thin blades that dragged across his forearms and thighs as if they weighed barely anything at all.  When Louis first noticed, Harry was straddling him as they choked words down each other’s throats.  Louis, oblivious to the dozens of people surrounding them through the cloudy smoke, tugged down the waistband of Harry’s trackies and rubbed up and down his thighs with warm, sweaty hands tucked down his pants.  When he felt the divots in Harry’s skin along his outer thighs, Louis nearly gagged, pulling back with bewilderment.  Louis, as he insisted, wasn’t stupid.  Even thirty feet under water, which was most days, Louis was perceptive enough to realize just what exactly mamed his boyfriend’s milky thighs ( _“What the hell, H, no.  Please tell me you didn’t-”_ ).  And yet despite the pleas of sanity and intelligence, Louis let himself be persuaded by a panicking Harry, and eventually became accustomed to nodding along to Harry’s empty promises of stopping.  It wasn’t until Harry’s mother walked in on him stepping out of the shower, ready to yell and scream about Harry’s latest grade, that she saw the scars and vowed to never let this happen again.

And so Harry was placed into a treatment center, set to stay for eight weeks.  Louis, at first, would visit once, twice a week.  But by the sixth visit, to be exact, HarryandLouis had fallen apart.  It ended in shouting, Harry screaming at Louis ( _“Leave me alone, don’t even think of coming back here if you’re going to show up out of your fucking mind again, I swear to god Louis.  Don’t even bother coming back.”_ ).  And so, despite Harry’s prayers otherwise,  Louis just didn’t. He didn’t come back, simple as that.  Harry supposed he was too busy swallowing labelless capsules and sticking his tongue in other peoples’ mouths. While Harry worked on cleaning up, sobering up, Louis didn’t.  It was soul crushing, even worse of a feeling than Harry could have ever previously imagined it would be.  He hadn’t realized that his boyfriend had truly cared so little.

By the time Harry was back in school, back at home helping with supper and washing clothes, Louis had long since vanished.  It was a jolting shock to realize the love of his life, or at least whom Harry had always thought was the love of his life, had just up and left.  Much to his own shame, Harry eventually broke down, begging anyone who would talk to him to tell him any clues they had as to where Louis had ran off to.  It finally lead to Harry showing up at Louis’ doorstepping and knocking manically on the door, a tightness and coldness running in his throat, through his veins.  It was there that he learned, over JayandLouis’ _favourite fucking tea,_ that Louis had just up and left and moved to London, reuniting with HarryandLouis’ mutual friend Niall up in London.  Harry, simply, was appalled.  

But he took that pain, took that fury, and channelled it through writing and reading and painting and photographing and picking up any goddamned hobby he possibly could that would distract him from his own thoughts for a bit.  It took time, but eventually Harry learned not to think of Louis at all.  Not to say that all semblance of resentment had faded, but at least Harry had moved on enough to be able to live, cope with life, without the overwhelming pain.  He was happy, even, by the time he was packing up his things and moving into his dorm at the University College London, Harry’s dream school since preschool (his mum had attended).  It shocked and gave pride to everyone around him that Harry had been able to pick back up and clean himself up so well, drastically improving his grades and his attitude and slowly regain that Harry Styles charm that everyone had greatly missed the past couple of years. So much so, that he had gotten in to his dream university.  

So basically, Harry moved on and _lived_. For nearly three years Harry attends his uni when he first runs into Louis again.  It all happens rather subtly.  

 

At first, neither even notices the other, Harry leaning over his worn paperback copy required for his lit class, Louis busy with grinding coffee beans and brewing tea. It is all subtle, until it isn’t.

“Your tea, babe.”  Harry finishes reading his sentence before looking up with a smile.

“Thanks,” he says, busying himself with running his finger along the rim of the cup.  When he realizes the guy was still in front of him, he looks up, unaccustomed to making eye contact with people while out alone.  He nearly chokes on his own spit, Harry does, when he sees  who is in front of him.

“Haz,” Louis says, voice soft, raw.

“Lou,” Harry breathes, equally dumbfounded.

“God, Harry,” Louis repeats, hands resting on the table in front of Harry.  His face is thinner now, scruffier too, cheeks sharper and hair longer, messier. And despite their unmistakable blue colour, his eyes have faded something else.  

Harry doesn’t say anything for a long time.  It takes three minutes for Louis to walk away, and with a jolt Harry begins to breath unsteadily, eyes stinging with the realization that he has just seen Louis for the first time in three years, and here he is walking away again.  Harry is perfectly still, hands still clutching his worn book, lips pressed tightly together.  Moments later, though, he is pulled back into the present when the chair across from him is moved.

Harry looks up at Louis, just as the older boy is clearing his throat.  His apron is gone, Harry notices.  “Can I?”  Louis asks, voice unsure.

Harry, still dumbfounded, can only nod.  And so they sit like that, facing each other for a long time before either speaks.

“You look different, H.  You’re like, a proper man and that.”  Louis is looking at Harry with these eyes that make Harry look away.  He looks sad, resigned, and it makes Harry’s heart burn.

“Yeah, time tends to do that to a person,” Harry says, without any real malice.  

“I- yeah, yeah I guess it does,” Louis says softly.  “Harry, I-”

Harry shakes his head, cutting Louis off.  “I can’t do this, Lou.  I can’t talk about this with you.  It been three fucking years, Lou-" His voice cracks on the last words, throat burning but mouth tired. "And it took nearly all of that time for me to forgive you, I can’t-” Harry stops, breathing in deeply.  He looks at Louis.

“You forgive me?” Louis asks, eyes traveling the lines and slopes of Harry’s face.  “H, I don’t.  I don’t know how you can possibly…” Louis stops again, just seeing the look on Harry’s face.

“I did.  I have.  I’ve forgiven you, because I had to if I was ever going to move on with my life.  We were together five years, Lou, you realize that?  We were kids when we met, we did everything together, we were everything together.  It’s hard to get over someone who was your entire life for the majority of what you care to remember.  Five years, Lou.”

“Five years,” Louis repeats, eyes now trained on the book clenched in Harry’s hands.   “That’s a long time for two scattered teenage boys, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, already exhausted from their simple conversation.  “You know, I don’t want to kill you.”

Louis laughs a bit at that, pinky running along the saucer of Harry’s tea.  “I admire that.  Sometimes even I want to kill me, I have no idea how you do it,” he says, tiny half smile at the corner of his lips.  He takes a deep breath.  “It nearly killed me, H.  I didn’t know what to do, you know?  I loved you, I loved drugs, and I hated everything else.  I had no idea, H, no idea, how to prioritise like a normal human being.  And I ran.  I ran away from you and how you made me feel.  I ran away from the stupid fucking drugs and got this shitty job and worked my way up to day manager and I’m still working on being okay and god I still think about you.  Shit, H.”

Harry thinks he’s died a bit, just now.  “How can we not?  Think about each other, I mean.  We were- You were everything to me for so long.”  He’s looking out the window over Louis’ left shoulder.

“Everything,” Louis says, voice cracking. “God, H.  Look at me, please, H.”  Harry looks at Louis, watching the way the crinkles by his eyes squeeze, the lines by his mouth folding into a frown.  “I didn’t think I’d ever move on from that place, you know?  But, like.  I did, obviously.  I just, like.  Wish I could have done it like you?  I guess I’m just a coward in that way.  You took responsibility and got help and I fucking _ran away_.  And that’s shit and I’m _sorry,_ Harry.  I’m just really fucking sorry,” Louis says, knuckles white and fingers knotted together.  

“I don’t.  I don’t think you’re shit.  I think you were, maybe, but it’s like.  I don’t even know you anymore, Lou.  I don’t know if you’re shit or not, I know nothing about you anymore.  I mean it’s not like you ever tried to contact me,” Harry says, and okay.  There’s the malice they were both waiting for.

“I… Of course I did, H.  I went to your mum first, I needed-  I needed to make it right the proper way.  Granted, months had like, gone by, right?  But I tried, I swear I did, but your mum told me to fuck off basically, and rightly so, honestly. And then I just realized that maybe as long as I was around I’d always be the problem.”

“My mum told you to fuck off?  You spoke to my mum and I never knew about this?”  The book, the window, both are forgotten as Harry’s eyes search Louis’.  “I never knew about this,” he repeats, voice broken.

“But you moved on, though, didn’t you?”  Louis swallows when Harry shrugs.  “You needed to move on properly, H, and I was just fucking things up for you, I would have fucked things up for you.”

“You didn’t fight for me, Louis.”  Harry is resigned.

“Oh, H,” Louis nearly whines.  “God, Haz, I’m so fucking sorry.  I couldn’t even fight for myself, if it’s any consolation.”

Harry is quite for a moment. “I suppose it is, maybe.”

“I thought about it, though.  Like recently, like.  When Niall told me you were in town I nearly searched for you dozens of times,  but Niall made sure I didn’t.  I couldn’t just, like, fuck you up again.”

“You knew I was in town,” Harry says.  “And.  How did you know you were going to fuck me up?  Maybe I’m stronger now, more independent and sure of myself then I was before?  Maybe I’m not so easily fucked up.”

Louis’ eyes are widen.  “No, H, that’s not what I meant-”  
“Maybe,” Harry sighs.  “Maybe that’s not what you meant, and that’s okay too, but.  I guess I just don’t know what we’re doing right now.  Are we getting to know each other again, are we getting closure so we can be done for good? Like-” Harry stops himself, unsure if he posed too much.

“I- I don’t know, Harry.  All I know is I have missed you for three fucking years, three years suspended in time, waiting for you.  I wasn’t even sure I’d ever see you again.”  Louis’ frowning.

Harry clears his throat, standing up and putting his book away in his bag, leaving his tea untouched.  “Me neither, Lou.”  
Louis rises, too, watching and waiting for Harry to make the next move.

“And maybe it was fate we met again, right?” Harry asks, voice unsure.

“Maybe,” Louis repeats, voice gentle again.

“And so maybe if we meet again then it’ll really be fate.  I guess we can then go from there.”

There’s a moment in which neither say or do anything, and then suddenly someone behind them is calling Louis’ name, a co-worker presumably, and then both are snapping back to reality and nodding.  Just as Harry reaches the exit door, back turned away, he hears Louis call, “Yeah, H, we can go from there.”

 

It only takes three weeks for fate to intervene again.

Harry can’t sleep.  He supposes it might have something to do with the warm, stale breath being pushed into his face, the scratchy leg wrapped around him.  So he lies there for a moment, breathing his ocean ujjayi breathing, staring at the ceiling staring back at him.  But, like.  No, he can’t do this.  This is ridiculous.  Deftly, he swats Niall away and, in doing so, accidentally rolls of the bed with a determined oof.

Standing on shaky knees,  Harry looks down at his friend, lying starfish style in the middle of the bed,  mouth willing and ready to catch all the flies in the flat.  He’s missed Niall.  After a moment he realizes that staring at your sleeping friend is only acceptable to a certain extent, turning away and pulling on a pair of jeans and a dirty flannel.  He’s not quite sure what he’s doing, really.  It’s just that he’s too hot, too bored, and too not tired.  And he supposes that hey, perhaps a midnight stroll is just romantic alone as it is in the company of the one that you love.  Right?

By the time he’s walking down the sidewalk, Harry’s arms are wrapped around his middle and his eyes are darting desperately between every slip or shadow.  And he realizes that maybe walking alone in the middle of the night (it’s definitely past midnight… the streets are all but dead) isn’t the greatest of ideas, but.  He’s got no money on him, not even his favourite necklace.  He’d be a real pity of a mug.

When Harry realizes his feet have brought him back to campus, he nearly groans.  It’s like he can’t fucking escape it.  But fighting it would probably mean going back out into the deserted streets and, well.  Harry thinks he’d rather walking through campus then being mugged. (Even though he’s already established that he probably won’t get mugged, the fear is still mostly rational and alive).  Eventually, he ends up outside of his lit building, a big one with pillars and stairs out front, overlooking a small courtyard.  He breathes in the night air and tries to tell himself this is better than Niall suffocating and then consequently leaving him to die a sad and lonely bastard who hasn’t had sex in over a month.  No, that would suck.

And so Harry sits there, legs outstretched in front of him, crossed at the ankle, hands tucked in underarms.  Just as he feels his head start to a bob, a loud creaking on his left jolts him into consciousness.  Oh god, he thinks.  I’m going to die.  No matter it’s just a door opening.  He’s going to die, he’s sure of it.  He’s going to get killed and mugged on stupid fucking campus.  Harry closes his eyes briefly before slowly turning his head towards the footsteps on the stair above him.

“Harry?”

“What- hi.”  Harry tries desperately to say more, but now he’s like really tired and sort of shell shocked.   He clears his throat.  “Louis.”

Louis is standing above him and shuffling his feet, unsure.  “Harry, what are you doing here?”  
“Avoid Niall’s leachiness.”

Louis blows a laugh out of his nose, creakily lowering himself onto the stairs, nose wrinkled.  “God, I’m old,” he mutters, stretching out a bit.  Harry pretends not to notice his “five day shadow” beard or his wrinkled clothing or his infuriatingly pleasing smell.  Because Harry’s not still attracted to him, he’s not, really.  “But really though, H, y’alright?”  Louis’ voice is soft, but a bit squeaky like maybe he’s just as nervous as Harry is.

Harry doesn’t answer, fiddling with the worn hem of his shirt. He thinks he’s going to sneeze.  Oh dear, he thinks.  And he sneezes.

Louis laughs, nose wrinkling big and true like it used to when Harry would kiss his neck, and wow, how did Harry get there so fast?  “Uh,” Harry says, eyes back to the ground.  “I mean, I could ask you the same thing.  Why you’re here, I mean.”

Louis laughs again. “I take night classes sometimes, and then our friend Paul keeps the alarms off in the main hall of this building so me and my friend Zayn can sneak into the art room.  I model nude, he paints.  Kidding, kidding, but.  Sort of, I mean I steal one of the guitars, he paints, we wreak havoc on the night and all that.”

Oh.  “Oh,” Harry says.  “And um, where is this guy, Zayn, then?” And dammit, he’s trying so hard.  Trying not to sound desperate or overly curious.  He wants to close his eyes with embarrassment just from asking such an invasive question, but then the door behind them opens and a slight man with tan skin and dark hair comes out of the shadows, a pale streak of green across one cheek.

“Lou?” the guys asks, lighting a fag.

“Oh, um.  Zayn, this is an old… this is Harry.  Harry, this is Zayn.”  And wow, who knew being addressed as “and old…” could hurt so much.  That, paired with the guy calling Louis “Lou” is enough to make Harry’s heart ache a little bit.  Harry knows, he knows, Louis didn’t mean it that way, or anyway at all, but. Maybe this guy, Zayn, means it that way.

“‘Ello, ‘Arry,” Zayn says around the fag.  Harry nods, trying to smile.  “Now, I know I don’t know you at all or anything but you know Lou and I know Lou so I really don’t think it would be weird at all if you maybe came to our art show tomorrow?  Gotta raise awareness, it’s for a good cause, and all that.”  Zayn raises his eyebrows, taking a long drag.

“Oh! I, um.”  
“You don’t have to, really, Harry, I mean I’m sure you’re super busy and all,” Louis cuts in, staring at Zayn with a look that Harry can’t decipher.  And, well, Harry used to know all of Louis’ Looks.  

“I actually was supposed to go to this gallery with my friend Niall tomorrow, but, um-” Harry bites his lip.

“Niall?”

“Niall?”

Zayn and Louis share a look Harry doesn’t quite like.  Louis nods.  “That’s my show, you’re coming to my show,” Zayn says. This time Harry raises his eyebrows, turning to Louis.  Louis only shrugs.  “I told Niall a while back that if you decided to come I’d stay away, I promise,” Louis says, voice soft.

“Oh.”  Harry rubs his palms across his pant legs, palms sweaty.  He supposes he should saying something more but someone is yelling at them to get off the steps so the motion detector can be turned on, and then all three of them are getting up and shuffling away, just as a bulky man with a half frown on his face slips out of the building and jogs towards them.

“Alarm’s on, looks like I’m done with this stupid gig till the next show, right Zayn?” the man says, with an emphasis on the _right, Zayn?_ Zayn just laughs with a _yeah, man, night Paul._  The man in turn jogs away, disappearing into the darkness.  Harry could laugh at the cliché but he’s actually quite tired and perhaps maybe a bit nervous.  He turns back to Louis (and Zayn).

“So, um,” Harry says.

“We best be going, right, Lou?” Zayn says, tugging Louis’ arm lazily as he grinding the heel of his boot onto the cigarette he’s just dropped.

Louis nods, eyes on Harry. “Y’alright, H? We can, like, walk you back or something?” And the way he says it, it’s like.  Harry really just can’t tell if Louis means it or not.  But some small part of him can’t help but think _that’s Louis’ offering voice.  He wants to walk you back, he does._  Harry shakes his head.

“‘M’alright, thanks.  I’d better get back before the sun goes up or so help me I won’t be going to any art shows,” Harry says.

Zayn laughs and Louis sort or coughs, eyes wide.  

“See you both tomorrow, then?” Harry asks, without really thinking about what he saying.  Well, he is thinking, but like, he’s thinking about how he sort of wants to see Louis again because it’s sort of like fate’s maybe intervened again.

He turns away, waiting for Louis’ familiar call behind him.  “G’night, H,” Louis calls.

Harry wonders if maybe Louis thought it was fate, too.

He sleeps quite well, after that.

 

When Harry wakes up the next morning, it's to this certain situation down there, and suddenly he's tugging himself off to the thought of Louis' lips. _Who would have ever thought that would ever happen again?,_ he thinks.  Afterwards, he gets dressed, pulling on his best (tightest) jeans and a comfy tan sweater.  And if he does a twirl or two in front of the mirror, well, sue him.  He looks alright, he thinks.  When he makes his way into the kitchen, all three metres from his bedroom, Niall is sitting on the counter with a spoon sticking out of his mouth, pale chest scrawny and exposed, and his lucky Kiss Me, I'm Irish boxerson full display.  Harry sort of wishes this wasn't normal, but.  When he hoists himself up to sit next to Niall, cereal bowl in one hand, Niall rambles on for a moment before Harry realizes that maybe Niall and Zayn might maybe be something more along the lines of NiallandZayn. This makes Harry wrinkle his nose, but he follows Niall obediently out the door only ten minutes later, careful to lock the door with the spare key Niall had given him ( _Don't actually think I'm gonna be able to remember to lock the door me self, huh, Haz?_ ).  He supposes if he busies himself with his phone on the Tube, maybe his heart will stop clenching something terrific.

When they get to the gallery, Zayn immediately whisks Niall away, shooting Harry a wink.  He opens his mouth to say something, but.  They've already run off. And... no Louis in sight.  Harry can't tell if the clenching in his stomach is from euphoric relief or euphoric disappointment.  He supposes, hands clasped behind his back, feet crossed, that he could enjoy this.  The works are fantastic, really. Everything signed with a little Zmlk on the corner consists of bright colors, glazed paint, jagged lines and swollen dips.  There's this one, a glowing sun with drips coming out of the sky, that makes Harry wish he had enough money to buy such a thing.  The photographs taken by this one guy, Liam Payne is his name, rival for best.  It's lovely, really, if not a tiny bit empty.  Harry tries to tell himself it's not disappointment, but it sure as hell isn't relief.  He was just... expecting Louis, is all.

But then, "Hi, H."

Harry sort of chokes a bit on his own spit, maybe. He unclasped his hands from behind his back and turns around, eyes wide.  Louis is, well, Louis.  His hair is longer and scruffier than Harry has ever seen it, but he's still wearing topshop jeans and a simple gray jumper.  Harry wants Louis to fuck him, but.  He doesn't say so, obviously.  "Hi," Harry says belatedly.

"You look lovely, Haz," Louis says, mimicking Harry's stance.  

Harry blushes, but responds, "So does these photos, really."

Louis snorts, poking Harry in between his ribs.  "Just take the compliment, mate."  Louis raises his eyebrows, grin wicked.  Harry sort of wishes Louis hadn't just called him mate.

Harry turns back to the photographs, cheeks flaming.  "You do too," he mumbles, eyes on the ground.  Louis laughs.

“Thanks, doll.  So you like Liam’s work then?”

Harry nods, eyes wandering the wall.  “D’you know him?”

Louis snorts again.  “A bit too well, to be honest.  He’s one of my flatmates.  Tan skin, chiseled abs, puppy eyes, the works.  Bit of a geek, too.  Such a catch, that boy is.  Fucking dolt.”

It takes a moment for Harry to realise Louis is only joking around, and then he’s wondering when in hell he stopped being able to tell when Louis is joking or serious. _Well,_ he thinks, _I guess that would have been when I went fucking years without seeing him._  “Just my type, really.”  The moment he says it, Harry wishes he could take it back.  But Louis only chuckles softly.

“Obviously,” Louis says, eyes crinkling.  “I can introduce you to him, if you’d like.  He’s right over there,” he continues, watching a boy across the room with shining eyes.

Harry coughs a bit, unsure where Louis is going with this.  Does he actually want to set him up with Liam?  Does he really not have any feelings left for Harry?  Harry wants to sigh dramatically, but he settles for a clearing of the throat. “If only so I can compliment him on his outstanding photography skills,” he says.

“Go ahead, then,” Louis says, voice suddenly a tad bit harsh and possessive.   _Oh_ , Harry thinks.

“Maybe later.”  Harry shrugs.

Louis pauses, and then, "H, can I put my arm around your waist for a second?  Scientific purposes and all that?"  His voice is soft, and Harry think he might not be joking this time.

Now it's Harry who raises his eyebrows.  "Research project for one of your shit uni courses, innit?" he shoots back, smiling.

Louis just rolls his eyes, slowly sliding his hand around Harry.  "You really have gotten tall, H.  Left me standing like a shrimp next to you, I reckon it looks like."  Harry tries to keep his breathing steady, but his ribs are giving these little twitches from the nerves he hopes Louis doesn't notice.  It's just... Harry was so in love with him, really.  It's got to be of no surprise that he still _has feelings_ of sorts.  Big feelings, admittedly, but. If that isn’t a big _sigh_ realisation, Harry’s not sure what is. Unsure, he turns to look at Louis, and with a jolt he realizes he has to look down a bit to fully look him in the eyes.  That's new for them.  Harry wonders what it would have been like if they had continued to grow up together.  Would it have felt any different?  Any less abrupt?  Harry suppose it doesn't matter anyways.  Louis left him, he reminds himself.  But still, with Louis' warm grip on his hip, Harry just doesn't have the heart to fight.  In fact, he really just wants to kiss Louis full on the lips and say _hey, i'm done hating you, and hey, some part of me still loves you, maybe, and hey i forgive you so will you kiss me please?_

Instead, Harry simply glances at Louis' lips and tries to imagine.  But when he looks back into Louis' eyes, they're travelling the lines of Harry's face, too.  "I missed you so much, H," Louis says, voice cracking. "I'm glad you're here."

Harry wrinkles his nose.  "Hi," he breathes.

"Hi. Can I please kiss you now?  I'm going to kiss you now," Louis states simply.  Harry cuts him off with a brush of his lips, the first they've had in years. And so, like, of course Harry's heart jumps when Louis kisses him back, like _really_ back.  He thinks he could get used to this.


End file.
